


of losing your voice

by astaria51 (winged)



Category: AFI, Bandom, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - World of Darkness (RPG), Angst, Break Up, F/M, Secrets, Were-Creatures, Were-Raven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-21
Updated: 2006-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-28 00:49:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winged/pseuds/astaria51
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Davey doesn't sing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of losing your voice

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an bandom crossover RPG/AU I was briefly in that took place in the [World of Darkness: Midnight Circus](http://whitewolf.wikia.com/wiki/World_of_Darkness:_Midnight_Circus) universe. All the present tense takes place at that circus; the past tense is on the streets of nowhere-in-particular.
> 
> Davey is a [Corax](http://www.shades-of-night.com/corax/wwintro.html), or were-raven. His backstory is obviously, different because of the RPG and his changed aspect, but he still knows most of the members of AFI as he would have as a highschooler/young adult, he just isn't in a band with them.

Davey hums everywhere he goes, or whistles; the former a smooth slurred vibrato against his chest and lips, the latter a clear high tone in several octaves at once. The tunes are slow, old ballads; or fastpaced pop tunes; or raggy riffs accompanied by the jangle of keys and coins, the snap of fingers. Davey collects songs like others collect stamps and winds them silvery on the breeze.

He doesn't sing them, though, not as such, not where anyone could hear the words escape his lips. When the workers gather around the fire, he watches with an odd hesitant smile and wistful eyes. Claps and stomps along as raucously as anyone. Passes on the invitation.

Sometimes, though, he slips, in his murmured invocations to the animals, or his play with the children. One of the Romani girls gets hurt and begs him to sing to her -- he acquiesces, then, distracting with silver coins pulled from behind her ears and a trailing folk song about a princess who runs from her father's land to be with the man she loves. The other children gather, sitting for a while to listen to the rare event. One of the other children tries faking illness a day later, and Davey smiles but does not sing.

 

He remembers what it's like to not think about it. Remembers songs that aren't folksongs or pop hits but come out of his mind. The screams and anthems of adolescence, he and Jade sitting over Jade's guitar and fitting lyrics to a riff.

And later on, in the squat, songs meant for only one other.

Davey remembers words woven like the pale plaits of her hair, melody softly curving like the hollow of her neck and the line of her hips and the smooth skin that only he saw bare. Recalls the way her eyes would drift off to somewhere distant and starry when he sang to her. His moon girl. His shadow nymph.

He remembers the way she could turn those eyes on him and he would tell her anything, anything at all, in long streams of babble and fairytale, half quotation and all Davey. Anything but not that. That _wherewereyou_ and _whatareyouhiding_ and _whatdoyoudowhenyou'regone_.

And then he remembers the song he sang her that last night, and the way her eyes were steel and fixed, and how he knew she was going, gone already. How he knew he'd leave first. And in his dreams he was drinking eyes, her eyes, and when he woke up crying in the purple light of sunrise, he could only kiss her and leave. Fly far away. As far away as he could get from this girl, this girl of moonlight and gold and humanity: never his to have.

 

He doesn't sing, now. Not really, though he remembers how.  
He wonders when he will again.


End file.
